


Deify

by scrapbullet



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Dark, Ficlet, Gen, Lovecraftian, M/M, Magical Realism, Not Beta Read, POV Second Person, Writing Exercise, an attempt at getting back into writing, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 11:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What do you see, my dear, when you look into the black?"</p><p>...</p><p>Your heart pounds a quickening rhythm. Your tongue tastes the salt-sting of sweat that beads on your upper lip as the world falls away to shadowed glass, and for a moment you are nothing but a vessel for what spills forth from the platinum bowl before you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deify

"What do you see, my dear, when you look into the black?"

There is a hand at the base of your spine; it's weight an exhilarating stimulation as He invites you to gaze into the precipice - _and lo, you are awakened, akin to a shuddering newborn with eyes blinded by the first glimpse of greatness, of purity, of knowing_ \- lips tracing the shell of your ear as you breathe, caught in the maelstrom of the twisted magic that He has called forth.

Your heart pounds a quickening rhythm. Your tongue tastes the salt-sting of sweat that beads on your upper lip as the world falls away to shadowed glass, and for a moment you are nothing but a vessel for what spills forth from the platinum bowl before you. For a moment you are no more than blood and meat intermingled with the acrid stench of filth, and you are... nothing. No-one. As inconsequential as a grain of sand, mercilessly ground down by the endless collision of waves.

He - Lord, brother, King, lover - is your anchor. His lips steal your breath away as the inky blackness seeps into you, slipping down your throat and settling in the cold, vast emptiness of your belly. It gives as much as it takes, this magic, and although it pains you; it matters little when He is here to soothe your hurts.

It splinters, burrowing into your body like a parasite. You let it. You let it in, and you gasp, terrified, grasping at the physical, the literal, because there is little else you can do.

Give in. _Give in. Let it settle deep, roots and all, and give in._

"I see so much," you stutter, and His answering hum of amusement lends warmth to your quaking limbs. You're cold, you realise, so cold that your fingers are nearly blue, caught in the elegant folds of His robes. "I can't-" Words are cumbersome. They, too, mean little. You reel, weak as a kitten. " _My Lord_ -"

There is a light within that void, of stars and angles that do not exist to any genteel or scientific mind. There are _things_ there, terrible things, with great, salivating maws and a hunger so unfathomable that if you close your eyes you will be _lost_ , and lost forever...

The gate closes with no comprehensible sound, but you feel it within you nonetheless. 

Loss. So much _loss_.

He, Henry, thumbs away a dewdrop of blood on your chin, and as the indomitable force withdraws you fall to your knees to press your face to the expanse of his belly in supplication, head bowed in prayer.

His power is absolute. His supremacy is blatant. All of England will bow down, will quiver with fear and awe and they will _know_.

"What you are, Nicholas, is blessed," Henry says without speaking. He baptises you in the religion of the Others, fingers drawing intricate symbols on your brow. Blessed. Yes. You have been allowed this knowledge. You have been proven worthy. 

Next comes the chalice, and the rich savour of red wine and cloves washes away the taste of fear.

When you rise, reborn, you do not see the sunken quality of His eyes, nor the thin tracery of veins across his face. Blood stains His fingers the colour of rust, and the softness of his belly all but undulates, as if there is more within than can be held by mere mortal flesh. 

You kiss His palm, enraptured. He smiles, and the void is an echo in his sigh.

You do not see the truth, only a falsehood; of a God in mortal guise.

**Author's Note:**

> So it's been a while since I dabbled in the B/C fandom as well as actually writing... and so after talking to ClementineStarling I thought, hey, might try stretching the ol' fingers a bit. This is a tad rough around the edges, but it was fun to write the boys again, if only a little bit. Tada?


End file.
